


Photo Op

by itsfine



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Consensual Sex, F/M, Femdom, Light Choking, Pharah is in charge, mention of war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 05:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14074035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsfine/pseuds/itsfine
Summary: A soldier stationed at Anubis meets Pharah. It goes pretty good for him. This is my first fanfic. I'm nervous.





	Photo Op

We were stationed in Egypt. Some tiny out of the way town whose only significance was some old ruins that had been discovered there. Really just a spot for archaeologists and tourists. Personally, I didn’t see the appeal. Or the military significance.

The officer running the op was someone named Amari. Went by the handle, “Pharah.” She was on loan to us from a group called Overwatch. We were all suspect. The official line was that this “Overwatch” was an elite high tech military alliance assembled from around the globe. On the ground we just assumed it was some kind of propaganda play. Get a bunch of good looking soldiers wearing flashy high tech weaponry, give the kids something to look up to, you know? Help recruitment. Maybe sell a few action figures. 

So we weren’t exactly eager for this deployment. We joined up for a cause, not for a photo op. Still though. A lot of the guys and a good number of the girls figured we should count our blessings. If this Amari couldn’t fight, at least she looked good in a mech suit. A lot more pleasant than that big Australian fella in the gas mask.

The sound of turbines overhead interrupted my day dreaming. I straightened my uniform and stood at attention. I was sure this Amari would make some grand entrance that would get shown over and over in the propaganda vids. At the very least, I wanted to look good for the cameras. After all, being all brave and handsome in the latest propaganda vid was usually enough to score you some free drinks, or earn you a taste of some local’s lipstick when you were on leave. 

The wind whipped from the turbines, then went still. Where had she?... BOOM. The ground shook like an antipersonnel mine went off. There she was, about 15 feet away, the pneumatic actuators of the suit straining to dampen the impact from her dropping out of the sky. 

I let out an involuntary “whoa.” “I’m glad you approve of my tactics soldier,” she snapped. “You call that standing at attention?” I realized that in the excitement I had let my posture slip to something that was less soldierly and more “what-the-fuck-this-lady-just-fell-out-of-the-sky.” She smirked, as I straightened back into something approximating standing at attention.

If this was just a photo op, they had picked well. Amari was undeniably beautiful. Of course you could have learned that from the posters. What the posters didn’t show was this aura she had that let you know she would happily rip the balls off of anyone dumb enough to disrespect her. Now sure, you might be thinking, “what if you don’t have balls?” But that’s because you haven’t caught one of her glares. Trust me. It’s very convincing. 

And any doubts we had about her that weren’t answered by her icy demeanor were quickly put to rest later that afternoon. Apparently intelligence leaked about a potential high value target being in the area of the archeological dig, and a detachment of omnic combat units attempted to overrun our position. She fought with a unique combination of discipline and savagery that was both terrifying and effective. It was like she was on fire. You got the impression her armor wasn't there for her protection, it was there to keep anyone who touched her from getting scalded. 

After that the troops no longer speculated about what she might look like under her mech suit. They no longer bragged about how they would sweet talk her given the chance. Conversation was dominated by the things they had seen her do on the battlefield, like sportscasters arguing over what deserved play of the game. I just kept my mouth shut and my eyes on the tray in front of me. For me, this day hadn’t been some grand adventure. It was a violent reminder that we were out here fighting for our lives. Not just our lives, but the lives of all of humanity. I wandered away from the mess hall and back to my bunk. The shock of battle slowly trickling away, leaving only emptiness. I fell asleep quickly but it was a restless sleep. 

The next morning I was called to a special briefing. Turns out I had been handpicked for a special assignment. It was explained that we were going into the archaeological area for a photo shoot. Me and 5 other soldiers were deemed to be adequately generic for background. I’d thought yesterday’s attack would have called for a reassessment of priorities, but apparently some public relations expert thought the fresh battle damage on the ruins was an opportunity to show that “this military isn’t just protecting earth’s people, it’s also protecting our history.” It seemed silly to all of us, and I could tell by the look on the captain’s face that she wasn’t a big fan of it either, but orders were orders. Even the stupid ones.

The photographer arranged us by height, while a stylist used some special brush to make sure there was no stray fibers or lint on our dress uniforms. As they primped and prepped us I stole glances as the commander. Just yesterday I had seen her rip through a battlefield like a chainsaw through a feather pillow. Now it was taking 3 people just to brush her hair, while another carefully applied eyeshadow to make her tattoo “pop” on camera. 

We followed the photographer’s instructions like good soldiers. They lined us up in profile, and aimed big reflective things at us to make the lighting look right. But we were just background -- scene dressing to make the captain look more heroic. At some point they got tired of telling us which way to turn and where to stand, and just started grabbing us by the shoulders and placing us, like big human sized props. 

After about the third setup, the photo assistant grabbed me and pushed me closer to the captain. The photographer yelled something about being on a new lens and told them to really cram us together. The assistant pushed me another step. Just inches behind the captain. I could smell the makeup and the hairspray mixing with the smell of machine oil and sweat from her armor. The faint traces of exhaust and high explosive left over from yesterday’s battle. A gust of wind and a big plait of her hair blew into my face. The photographer let out an exasperated bark and the wardrobe assistant scuttled over telling me not to touch it, and ever so cautiously moved it out of my face in a way that would not mess up the careful styling. My heart started to race. Maybe it was the faint scent of conditioner. Not something one often smelled on a battlefield. I swallowed hard and felt my body tighten, as if coming to attention. It was as if just now my body had decided to realize she was a woman again. In my distraction I didn’t hear them yelling at me to change positions until the assistant pushed me right against the back of the captain’s armour.

My body reacted involuntarily. This was bad. The camera shutter flicked as I tried to slow my racing heart and rushing thoughts. As I tried to distract myself by running through the technical specs of the raptora armor. I remembered the diagram I had seen of the two quick release tension buckles behind either shoulder plate for quick removal in an emergency. I swallowed hard. She was right there, pressed against me. I prayed to any gods that would listen for the armor of her suit to keep her from feeling my arousal. Time seemed to crawl by as the shutter clicked again and again. 

Finally he lowered the camera and checked the monitor. Happy with what he saw, he told us we were done. I felt the captain let out her breath in relief, causing her body to sag into me ever so slightly. I tensed even more, holding completely still in the vain hope that she wouldn’t notice the what was pressing against my pants and into her hip. It was just for an instant. Maybe I was safe. 

Now that we were no longer under the authority of the photographer, the captain quickly re-asserted her command. She barked a series of orders sending most of the soldiers to join the crew watching the perimeter. I was told to escort the photo team back to their transport. I couldn’t help but notices a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she gave the order. Something I’d never seen on her always composed features. I picked up the heavy box of photo equipment happy to have something to focus on that wasn’t the way my commanding officer’s hair smelled.

I trudged the heavy camera equipment back to their transport as the civilians eagerly chattered about the photoshoot. They had heard of the captain’s reputation for being a hardass, but were happy with how everything turned out. Their next shoot that was supposed to be in some little shanty town in Australia. The hair stylist seemed especially worried. Apparently she had done a shoot with the Australians before and had a bad experience trying to apply hairspray to hair she didn’t realize was slightly on fire. 

I dropped the heavy box in their transport, and turned to leave. But before my eyes could even readjust to the harsh sun reflecting off the sand, I heard the photo assistant call my name. It seems the captain wants to see you, something about new orders. “Ok,” I said, “I’ll head to her quarters first thing when I get back to camp to receive them.” “No,” the assistant said,"she sent through some coordinates for you.” I checked my map. It was one of the old rooms that was part of the ruins. I was confused. That was where we just were, and I had seen the captain leave for the camp. There was no way she could walk back so fast. I was halfway through explaining to the assistant why it didn’t make any sense when when I heard the turbines. Oh yeah. 

“Dumbass” the captain said as I walked through the door. Between the embarrassment of realizing forgetting the worlds best known reptora operator could fly, and the shock of seeing the captain’s normally stern face split by a huge grin I briefly forgot how to talk. I also forgot how to salute a superior officer. Something she pointed out seemed to be becoming a habit with me. I found my voice enough to give her a weak “sorry sir,” and saluted. I waited for her to say at ease, but she just circled me, examining my hasty salute. 

Shit. I wanted nothing more, to straighten my shoulders and fix the part of my uniform that had come untucked, but now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to prove that if I couldn’t do anything else right, I could at least hold a salute. In the silence I heard the faint metallic ticks as her suit cooled down. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness of the room, I noticed a mattress on the old stone floor. Standard military issue, but singed in a few places. I tried to keep the confusion off my face. Just hold the salute.

“At least one part of you seems to give me the respect I deserve.” she said as she circled behind me. Her hand traced the line of my belt, past my untucked uniform and pressed against the front of my pants. Any success I had been having at keeping the stoic grimace of a soldier at attention on my face, quickly fled. 

“Well?” She asked.

I swallowed hard.

“Sir?” I stammered out. 

Her other arm snaked around my neck. She yanked me close. I felt her hot breath on my ear. “At ease soldier,” she whispered as she unzipped my pants. Her free hand slid down my pants as her arm tightened around my neck. The hand in my pants worked me free from the fabric. My hips thrust automatically at the relief of the pressure, pushing me into her palm. She stroked me once then let go, leaving me twitching, painfully hard. Behind me I heard the metallic clack of tension buckles being unclasped. 

The arm around my neck loosened and she shoved me away. I stumbled, catching myself on the wall and spinning to face her as her armor dropped away revealing a sweat drenched tank top, no bra underneath. It clung to her, outlining muscles and breasts through the translucent fabric. I saw a long diagonal scar running across her stomach. It was brutal and beautiful. It wound it’s way over the small rises and fall of her stomach. This was not the perfect skin of a recruitment poster promising the glory of battle. This was the hard souvenir of a life spent on battlefields.

I instinctively reached my hand to it. She reacted automatically, grabbing my hand and pulling it away in a painful defensive hold. Then catching herself, she reversed her grip on my hand, pressing it into her chest. Her nipple hardened under my palm as she pinned me against the wall and covered my mouth with her own. I felt the warmth of her tongue on mine. My head spun. Thought fled and instinct took over. My tongue found its purpose, and I felt her her thigh slowly rise between my legs. A fighter taking control. 

I flattened my free hand against her belly and slid my way down, past scar and belly button. Through her close cropped pubic hair, and pressed my trigger finger inside her, firing two and three round bursts, before settling in to a gentle pressure. A soft grunt escaped her lips. She pressed her forearm into my chest, pushing me back into the rough stone of the wall as I explored deeper. She was warm and wet mixing with a thin sheen of sweat. Her free hand grabbed the shaft of my dick in and pumped in rhythm with my fingers. 

Then with a brutal grace she slid the arm pinning my chest up to my neck, wrapping fingers around my neck and pushing me down to my knees. The rough stone of the wall scraped against my back, but when I jerked forward reflexively the hand around my throat tightened. Slowly sliding my back down the rough stone until I was on my knees. Then she mounted me, pressing my face into the sweet roughness of her pubic hair. The mix of sweat and wetness throbbed through me with a dull ache. I pressed my tongue into her. The taste was both harsh and pleasant, like the smell of gasoline at sunrise. She bucked, rolling forward, raking the rough hair across my face. With each roll they softened, covered with the mixing of wetness and sweat and saliva. 

A shudder ran through her body, she her hand tightened around my neck, until the muscles of my shoulders stood out like taught cords against her grip. She pressed me to the floor and guided me into her. My hips bucked automatically and she tightened around me. She was hard and soft. Slamming down into the mattress hard muscles driving me into her. As the first moans of orgasm tore their way from her lips, she tightened around me. I thrust growing taught, like a cable stretched to humming. Then released. Pulsing and throbbing, bucking and rolling with the rocking of her hips. Each wave of pleasure running through the two of us like a circuit, sparking at every point her skin touched mine. My breath was ragged and hard. Hair covering her eyes, so all I could see was her lips and nose and the bottom of her tattoo, the orgasm rolled through us like a thunderhead, brief flashes lighting up the darkness. She let out a long exhale and collapsed on top of me. We were both breathing hard from the exertion, but she looked better doing it. I tried to shift out from under her, but she shoved me back down to the mattress with some kind of pressure point nonsense and then happily nuzzled back into my chest. Gentle and vulnerable but somehow still very much in charge.

The next morning she had to catch a transport out. I got back to my bunk only to find an empty bed frame. My mattress was missing. I should have realized the singed mattress we spent the night on was familiar. I went back to our little room and got it. Carrying a mattress by yourself over half a mile of sand is a lot harder when you don’t have turbines strapped to your back generating things like “lift” and “thrust.” But it’s better than asking your bunk mates for help and then having to explain just how the hell your mattress made it all the way out here in the first place. Of course the exhaust burns on it raised a few eyebrows too, but it was one of those situations where any lie I could have come up with was more believable than the truth.

Pretty soon things got back into the normal rhythm of life in the desert, and I was thankful for the burned polyester of my mattress. After the scrapes healed, that mattress was the only proof that it was a memory and not a dream.

Two weeks after she flew out, we got a big package or promotional posters. She’d signed one for every member of the camp by name. Everyone was laughing and making fun of the 5 soldiers in the background trying to look soldierly. They laughed at the way Martinez’s ears stuck out, or how they’d cropped Richmond out completely. 

But most of the camp’s jokes focused on the red face half hidden behind captain Amari’s wing. “Was it sunburn or did the makeup artist do that to you?” I was asked more times than I care to count. There were more jokes when I hung my copy of the poster by my bunk. Martinez said if I really wanted to look at a picture of him every night, he could do better than that one. 

I’d hoped there would be something more to it all, but I knew it was too good to be true. A woman like that has a lot better options than some asshole with a burnt mattress. Why waste her time with some generic soldier.

Three weeks later I came into my tent to find my poster missing. Replaced by a big glossy picture of Martinez. “Come on,” I said, “very funny but give it back.” “Whoa man,” he said, “don’t take it so seriously. I didn’t take it. I just saw it was gone, and didn’t want you to be without a picture of me. I know how important it is to you.” 

“You looking for this?” I heard a familiar voice say. “I don’t know, having a picture of a superior officer over your bed kind of makes you look like a suck up.” I turned around and there she was. “I’ve been talking to my colleagues back at the Overwatch program, and we’ve come to the conclusion that your talents could best be used elsewhere, but I’m afraid you will have to leave this behind.” She said, holding my poster, and looking at the picture of herself disapprovingly. 

“Yes sir,” I said. 

This time I remembered to salute.


End file.
